We’ll have to resort to barricades. Board
the windows and doors with love and poetry.
We’ll die with melting, empty rifles and fists.
We’ll be despised and wildly admired.
We’ll be dead winter flowers unaffected
by the new Spring.
We’ll be dead, dragged to curbs
readied for rough, unknowing hands.
We’ll be dead.

4.
The dead man said,
“The day started out…
with normal showers,
and cobwebs of sleep.”